Let's Talk of Murder

by Joan Smith

  “Bruton will hover at your elbow, putting the fear of God into the girl to keep her quiet,” Prance countered.

  “Not when we announce that we mean to take Beth out of that place this very day,” Corinne said.

  “But if the poor girl is sick–” Prance was stopped by a look from Black, who just shook his head at such dangerous innocence.

  “Rubbish! They just don’t want anyone to see her,” Corinne explained. “We’re going in there, Reg, before Luten and Townsend leave.”

  “This is all based on a mere whim,” he objected. “I don’t know why you’ve picked on Beth. She’s no different from the others.”

  “Yes, she is different! Her arms were all bruised. I think she had the courage to stand up to them. God only knows what they’ll do to her. Probably kill her, as they did Rosalie and Fanny.”

  “We’re going,” Byron said. “Do you come with us or not?”

  “Of course he’s going with you,” Black said in a manner that brooked no denial. “I would go with you myself if I hadn’t already been. They would surely smell a rat if I went back.”

  “Bullies!” Prance grumbled, but he knew he would be coerced in the end. Pushing his way in where he was not wanted was anathema to one of his social sensitivities, but he could not show his weakness in front of Byron.

  While they argued and discussed how they would handle the second visit, an altercation had arisen in Mrs. Bruton’s alcove.

  “While we’re here, I would like to see Beth Kilmer,” Luten said. He remembered Corinne’s concern for the girl, and knew she had put Black up to his visit. It was a way to ingratiate himself with her, as Black had had no luck.

  “She’s sleeping,” Mrs. Bruton said firmly. “She’s caught a cold. I had to give her a few drops of laudanum.”

  “Laudanum is not the usual remedy for a cold,” he pointed out.

  “She was restless.”

  “I would like to see her, please,” he repeated. “Now.”

  “Come along, woman!” Townsend growled. “You’re dealing with the law.”

  “What has Beth Kilmer to do with Fanny Rowan’s death? And what has Fanny to do with the Home? She wasn’t murdered here. I saw her leave with my own eyes. It’s that fellow who picked her up in the hackney who killed her. It’s him you should be going after.”

  “That is hard to do when you didn’t see the fellow who waited for her in the hackney,” Townsend said. “It seems to me you’ve been entirely irresponsible in the execution of your duties, Mrs. Bruton. I might even say derelict. You’re paid to ensure the welfare of these lasses in your charge, and what do you do? Send them out the door without so much as seeing who is waiting for them. Hand them over to any murderer who comes along.”

  Mrs. Bruton, despite Clare’s statement that the man in the carriage was oldish, claimed to have seen nothing but the corner of his hat.

  She gave him a sharp look. “P’raps you didn’t ask the right question,” she said. She enjoyed her position as mistress of the Morgate Home and was willing to overlook many of Lord Clare’s peccadilloes to ensure his support. But she knew Clare had been arguing with Rosalie the day she “jumped” from the roof, as he had been arguing with Fanny the night before she left. She also knew that something havey-cavey was afoot at the annex. If he had taken to murdering the girls, that was a different matter. She didn’t mean to go to the gibbet with him.

  “What do you mean by that, Mrs. Bruton?” Townsend demanded.

  “I would know the hackney and driver to see them again. It’s an old black rig that belongs to a fellow called Tom Noonan, who lives just at the corner of Lambeth High Street and Lambeth Road. No better than he should be, Tom Noonan.”

  “And you didn’t find it odd that a vicar from out of town hired a local rig? You’re mighty unsuspicious!” Townsend charged.

  Then he turned to Luten. “It will be easy enough to find this Tom Noonan and quiz him. We’ll see the girl now.”

  “As you wish,” Mrs. Bruton said, and rang a bell to call the servant on duty. “This Bow Street Officer has a warrant to see Beth Kilmer,” she said, inventing the warrant to cover herself if Clare should end up still in charge. She reached in the desk and extracted a key, which she handed to the girl.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The frightened looking girl led the men upstairs, down an uncarpeted corridor, past open doors. Each room held four beds, all neatly made up with a pillow and a rough gray, institutional blanket. There were girls in some of the rooms, reading their Bibles, sewing, talking. At the end of the hall she took a key out of her pocket to unlock Beth’s door. Luten and Townsend exchanged a meaningful look.

  “Are all the doors kept locked when the girls are ill?” Luten asked.

  “That is pretty dangerous in case of fire,” Townsend said, pinning her with a sharp blue eye.

  “Oh no, sir. We don’t usually lock them. Mrs. Bruton said Beth might walk in her sleep.”

  “Has she done so before?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” the girl said with a fearful look, obviously dreading the wrath of Mrs. Bruton if she said simply, “No.”

  She unlocked the door and they stepped into a small, cold, clammy, windowless room smelling of camphor. The light slanting through the door showed them walls distempered in a bile green shade. There was only the one narrow cot, with the familiar gray blanket. Not even a table by the bedside. On the pillow lay a pale, pretty face with dark hair streaming around it. The girl was in a deep, drugged sleep, but at least she was breathing.

  Townsend ordered the other girl to bring a lamp. She darted out and was back in a minute. He lifted Beth’s hand and felt the pulse at a wrist no bigger than a child’s. The pulse was rapid and weak. Then he laid a hand against her forehead, lifted an eyelid and peered into her eye. “This girl needs a doctor,” he said. “Has a doctor seen her?”

  “No, sir,” the servant said, and began sniffling.

  Without further ado, Townsend lifted Beth up from the bed, bundled the blanket around her and carried the light, fragile bundle downstairs. Mrs. Bruton came rushing out of her alcove, eyes wide, skirts flying. “What are you doing? Where are you taking her?”

  “To a doctor, Mrs. Bruton,” Townsend replied. “You may count yourself fortunate if you’re not hauled into court for the unconscionable way you run this prison.”

  “You’ll hear from our lawyer about this,” she said, but her face was white, and her eyes dilated with fear. Behind her, the servant smiled mistily and blew out the lamp.

  As they went to Luten’s carriage, Townsend said, “Drop the lass off at a hospital until she comes to. I wager she can tell us something. Why did they have the poor child locked in that room alone– and without a window, you noticed, so she couldn’t call for help if she came to. I don’t believe she’s ill at all, but she’s been fed a heavy dose of laudanum.”

  “Lady deCoventry has a particular interest in the girl,” Luten said. “Let us take her there and call a decent sawbones to tend her. “

  “You’ll have to take care of that yourself, milord. I plan to watch the back door and catch Mrs. Bruton as she peels off. I want to see if she runs to Clare. There was guilt writ all over her face. I must have a word with this Tom Noonan as well. I’ll call on you later.” He gently placed the bundled girl on the banquette.

  “Very well.” Luten clambered into the carriage and sat beside Beth, supporting her sleeping body against his shoulder. He called, “Spring ‘em,” to his coachman, and they were off.

  When Prance, watching from the corner, saw Luten and Townsend come out, he cried, “They’ve got Beth! They’ve rescued her. We don’t have to go in.” He felt as if a weight had fallen from his slender shoulders.

  “Where are they taking her?” Byron asked.

  “Townsend is not getting in the rig,” Prance said. “Where is he going?”

  “Never mind Townsend. Follow his lordship, gentlemen,” Black ordered, in the accents of Lord Blackwell. He then elbowed the greatest poet
in England aside and assisted his mistress into the carriage with a proprietary air and sat beside her.

  It proved impossible to keep pace with Luten’s team, but at least Prance’s coachman kept them in sight, and soon discovered where they were heading. The carriage was parked in front of Corinne’s house when they reached Berkeley Square. Black daintily handed Corinne down from the carriage, then hurried forward to attend to his buttling duty and open the front door for them. Coffen, who had been awaiting Corinne in her drawing room when Luten arrived, beat him to it.

  “Glad you’re back,” he said, peering from Corinne to Byron to the drawing room, where Luten had carried Beth. “Luten’s rescued Beth Kilmer. He’s called a doctor and asked Mrs. Ballard to prepare a bedroom. Where were you?” His scowl tacitly asked, “Why is Byron with you?”

  “At the Morgate Home,” she said, which eased his rancor somewhat.

  Mrs. Ballard stood in the middle of the room, her hands fanning the air in nervous consternation. “Milady is not here! I hardly know what to do.” But as a clergyman’s relict, she knew the afflicted were to be succored, and she rushed about in circles, trying to decide which bed chamber she should recommend. When Corinne came pelting into the room, she cried, “Thank God you are back, milady!” in accents that suggested she had just returned from an expedition to darkest Africa.

  “The yellow bedroom,” Corinne said to her companion, then she turned to Luten. “How is she? Is she alive?”

  Luten’s eyes were trained on Byron, who had the grace to feel de trop.

  “She’ll be fine in a few hours,” Coffen said, as the others appeared to be struck dumb. “She was given a big enough wallop of laudanum to put a horse to sleep, but her pulse is not too weak.” He turned to Luten and said, “Corrie and the others went to the Morgate Home as well, Luten, so she wasn’t–”

  “I see,” Luten said hastily, to avoid any embarrassing explanations. But he also saw that Corinne must have met Byron by pre-arrangement. No doubt Prance had a hand in it, since he was with them.

  Corinne rushed to the sofa and knelt beside Beth. The still, pale face looked like death. But she was alive, she would recover, and she was out of that house of horror. As tears dimmed her eyes, Corinne had the strange sensation that she was looking at her younger self. This could be her, or her sister Kate. They looked alike. What horrors had this child suffered?

  She heard a soft step behind her, and looking up, she saw Luten gazing over her shoulder at Beth. His stern face was softened in pity as he studied the girl. Luten devoted his time and talent to the Whigs because of their work to help the disenfranchised. She became bored and impatient with it at times. Luten was always busier than she liked, but Beth put a human face on the suffering Luten was working to mitigate. And Corinne felt diminished to realize she had done nothing to help him. In fact, she had been a hindrance.

  Like a selfish, heedless child, she wanted him to spend more time with her. He should despise her. She turned back to Beth, mentally comparing their lives. When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she turned. Luten was gazing at her with a question in his eyes and a frown on his face.

  “The doctor will be here soon. She’ll be fine. I thought you would want her brought here. Is that all right?”

  “Yes. Yes, thank you, Luten,” she said in a voice made rough with emotion.”

  “Show me where you want her. I’ll–” He remembered his game leg, grimaced and said, “Black will take her up.”

  Black came bustling forward. “Leave it to me, your lordship. The yellow room, milady?”

  “Yes, I’ll go with you.” She cast an inviting look at Luten. He followed them out of the room and up the stairs. When Black had placed Beth on the bed, he removed the rough gray blanket.

  “I’ll put this out to air,” he said, wrinkling his nose at the scent of mothballs.

  The thin arms protruding from the flanelette nightgown were badly bruised. Such bruises hadn’t come from falling downstairs. Some of them were fading to yellow, some were fresh, ugly discolorations.

  “The poor girl,” Corinne said, drawing the coverlet over her and brushing her hair back from her face. “She looks so young.”

  “I’ll send her to Southcote Abbey when she recovers,” Luten said. “She’ll be better off out of London. I can always use another housemaid.”

  She noticed that “I.” Before, he used to say “we,” when he talked about the future.

  “I wish I could keep her myself.” Corinne’s resources were limited. To hire another servant, she would have to be rid of one she already had, and that seemed unfair.

  Luten straightened up and looked around the room unconcernedly. “I don’t plan to keep her locked up. You could always drop around the Abbey and visit her,” he said blandly. His pride was slipping back into place. When it came to speaking his heart, his courage failed. What if she refused?

  Corinne just looked at him with an unreadable face. She could “visit,, what was to have been her future home. “I’ll see if the doctor has come yet,” she said, and left.

  * * *

  Chapter 27

  When Luten returned belowstairs, he saw Corinne and Byron with their heads together, deep in conversation. Even as he watched, with his heart pounding in irritation, some corner of his mind took note of what a handsome couple they made. The two dark heads, the classical profiles, the youthful smiles were pretty enough to decorate a Valentine. He felt again that murderous impulse to strike out at Byron with his fists. He wasn’t as far removed from the caveman as he had thought.

  Byron, no stranger to this sort of situation, glanced up and saw him. He immediately stepped forward to meet him and ease the social tension.

  “I was just telling Lady deCoventry I shall leave, as soon as we hear from the doctor how Beth is faring,” he said.

  Luten didn’t trust himself to speak. He held his lips tightly together and nodded. Corinne recognized the signs of passion in him, but was unsure whether it was due to jealousy or simple anger.

  As Black, with his spectacles removed and his hair returned to normal, arrived with a tea tray at that moment, she had to invite Byron to stay for tea. To conceal his rampant jealousy, Luten added his urgings to hers. And Byron, hoping to smooth the matter over, felt his darting off would suggest some amorous wrongdoing and accepted the invitation. The doctor’s arrival provided a welcome diversion. Black took him upstairs. The remaining group sat by the fire, grateful for the warmth of the leaping flames.

  As they sat, sipping tea and talking over the case, Coffen said, “I’ve been busy myself this afternoon. Had another go at Morrison. He’s the fellow the neighbor saw calling on Fogg. Morrison says they didn’t argue, though. Got along like a house on fire. Must have been Clare that was arguing with Henry. Morrison says he went to call on Fogg the night of the murder. He knew Fogg was going to Hertford’s place to try for a loan and told him he’d drop around later to see if he got it, which he did. Drop around, I mean, I don’t know about the loan.

  “Fogg was already killed when Morrison got there. The ring and lock of hair was already gone. He was afraid he’d be accused of it, and ran out into the night. He walked the streets for hours, fretting and trying to figure out who had done it, and of course worrying if he was next. He thought it was because of their being lovers.

  “He knew about Fanny, and that Lord Clare had got her into the Morgate place. Fanny seemed happy enough, but when she started dropping hints in her letters about this and that ‘gentleman friend,’ as she called them, Fogg got suspicious. That’s when she admitted she wasn’t enceinte at all. She never intended to stay at the Morgate Home. Her plan was to go on the stage. But then she met Clare and fell into a passion for him, and next thing she knew, she was earning her keep at the house in Lambeth.

  “Fogg was horrified. Afraid his papa, or Fanny’s, would come after him with a horse whip. He tried to visit Lord Clare, but he always let on he was out, so at last Fogg wrote him a pretty threatening letter, saying h
e had no choice but to discuss it with Lady Hertford. Clare came running fast enough then. They had an argument. Henry wanted him to send Fanny home. I daresay Clare knew Fanny would never keep her mouth shut if he did that. Henry gave Clare twenty-four hours, which could explain why Clare was rash enough to take a shot at him that very night. I daresay he didn’t recognize Prinney or he would have waited.

  “Anyhow, the letter goaded Clare into action. Or so Morrison thinks. He believes Clare followed Fogg home and killed him, but he had no way to prove it and was afraid to go up against a lord in the courts. He figures the missing ring and the lock of hair was red herrings, since Clare had no notion Fogg didn’t care for ladies.”

  Some of this was new to Byron, who listened with the keenest interest and asked a few questions.

  Luten asked, “Was it Morrison who went back and burned the papers you found in the grate?”

  “It was. Henry had given him a key. He’d been writing to Henry, you see, and when he settled down to some hard thinking, he wanted to make sure the billets doux wasn’t found. Townsend had already been there, but the letters were hidden in a secret drawer of a desk. He burned them and some he found from Fanny as well.”

  “Will Morrison testify to this in court?” Luten asked.

  “Not about the billets doux. I wager we can talk him into telling the rest of it, if we can keep quiet about how things were between him and Fogg,” Coffen replied. “Let on they were just chums, I mean. That’s what Clare thought they were. Morrison says if the truth comes out, he’ll kill himself, rather than face his family and friends, to say nothing of a judge and jury and gibbet.”

  “And we call ourselves civilized!” Byron said with disgust.

  “How did you convince him to admit all this to you?” Prance asked.

  “I didn’t. At some point he just seemed to think I knew. In fact, he thinks I’m one of them. Knowing which way Fogg’s taste ran, I was careful not to show any disapproval. Once he got started, it all came gushing out. I fear the lad’s developing a bit of a tendre for me. Bit of a problem.”